The Nightingale

In China, long ago, the emperor was Chinese, and so was everyone around him. This happened so many years ago that it is worth telling again now, before it is quite forgotten.

The emperor's palace was the finest in the world, built entirely of delicate porcelain — so costly and so easily broken that everyone who touched it had to be careful indeed. In the garden grew the most wonderful flowers, and to the loveliest of these were tied little silver bells, which tinkled softly so that no one could walk past without noticing them. The garden stretched on and on, farther than even the gardener knew, until at last it reached a great forest, and the forest ran down to the deep blue sea, where tall ships could sail beneath the branches.

In one of those trees lived a nightingale, who sang so sweetly that even the poor fisherman, rowing out at night to spread his nets, would stop his work to listen. "Oh, how lovely that is," he would say — and then he would remember his nets and go on. But the next night, when he heard her again, he always said the very same thing.

Travelers came from every land to see the emperor's city, his palace, and his garden, and they marveled at them all. But when they heard the nightingale sing, they said, "That is the best of all." And when they went home, they wrote it in their books, so that the fame of the nightingale traveled the whole world over — everywhere, it seemed, except into the emperor's own palace.

One day some of these books were brought to the emperor himself, and as he read, he came upon the words: "But the nightingale is the best of all."

"What is this?" said the emperor. "A nightingale? I know of no such bird in my empire — and yet I must learn of it from a book!" He called at once for his lord-in-waiting, a man so grand that when anyone beneath him spoke, he answered only "P!" — which meant nothing at all.

"There is said to be a wonderful bird here called a nightingale," said the emperor. "Bring her to me this evening to sing. Why has no one ever told me of her?"

"I have never heard the name," said the lord-in-waiting, and he hurried off to search. He ran up and down every staircase and through every hall, but no one at court had ever heard of any nightingale. So he went back and told the emperor it must be a story invented by writers of books.

"But this book was sent to me by the emperor of Japan himself," said the emperor. "It cannot be false. I will hear the nightingale this evening, or the whole court shall answer for it after supper!"

So the search began again in earnest, half the court running through the palace, until at last they found a little kitchen girl who said, "Oh, the nightingale — I know her well! Every evening, when I carry scraps home to my sick mother by the shore, I hear her sing in the wood, and it is so lovely it brings tears to my eyes."

She agreed to lead them to the bird, and off they went into the forest. On the way, a cow lowed, and the young courtiers cried, "There she is!" — until the kitchen girl told them, gently, that those were only cows. Then some frogs croaked in the marsh, and the court chaplain declared it sounded just like little bells — until she told him those were only frogs. At last the real nightingale began to sing, and the girl pointed up into the branches at a small, plain, gray bird.

"Is that her?" said the lord-in-waiting, surprised. "She looks so plain! Perhaps she has lost her color at the sight of so many grand people."

But when the nightingale learned the emperor himself wished to hear her, she agreed at once, and flew along gladly to the palace.

That evening the great hall was polished bright, with a thousand golden lamps and the loveliest flowers set along the halls. A golden perch was placed for the nightingale in the middle of the room, and the whole court gathered to watch, along with the kitchen girl, who had now been given the grand title of Real Court Cook.

The nightingale sang, and it was so beautiful that tears rose in the emperor's eyes and ran down his cheeks. He offered her his own golden slipper to wear about her neck, but she thanked him and said, "I have seen tears in an emperor's eyes — that is reward enough for me." And she sang again, more sweetly still.

The nightingale was given a golden cage and permission to fly out twice a day, and once at night — though always with twelve servants holding silk ribbons tied to her leg, so there was little joy left in the flying. All the city talked of nothing else, and eleven peddlers' children were named after her, though not one of them could sing a note.

Then one day a large parcel arrived at the palace. Inside was not a book, as the emperor first thought, but a mechanical bird — an artificial nightingale covered in diamonds and sapphires, sent as a gift from the emperor of Japan. When wound up, it could sing one of the real nightingale's songs, its tail glittering as it moved.

Everyone was delighted, and it was decided the two birds must sing together. But it did not go well, for the real nightingale sang in her own way, while the artificial one only turned on its wheels and kept perfect time. So the artificial bird sang alone instead, and it was declared just as fine as the real one — finer, even, for it was so much prettier to look at. It sang the very same tune three-and-thirty times without growing tired, and the music master praised it endlessly, saying that with the artificial bird, everything was fixed and certain, while no one could ever tell what the real nightingale might do next.

While all this praise was being given, no one noticed that the real nightingale had quietly flown out the window, back to her green woods.

"How ungrateful!" said the court. "But we still have the best bird after all." And the artificial bird sang on, night after night, until the whole court — indeed, the whole city — knew every note by heart and could hum along. Only the poor fishermen, who remembered the real nightingale, said quietly, "It's pretty enough, but something is missing."

The real nightingale was banished from the land, and the artificial one was given the place of honor on a silk cushion beside the emperor's own bed.

A year went by this way. But one evening, as the artificial bird sang its best, something inside it went whirr and snapped, and the music stopped. The court watchmaker examined it and said the little wheels were worn out and could not easily be mended; the bird must be allowed to sing only once a year from then on, and even that would strain it. Everyone was sorrowful — until the music master gave a grand speech declaring the bird was just as good as ever. And so, they all agreed, it was.

Five more years passed, and then a great sadness fell over the land, for the emperor himself grew ill, and it was said he could not live. A new emperor had already been chosen, and the court, believing the old one as good as dead, hurried off to pay their respects elsewhere. The halls grew quiet, the servants slipped away, and the emperor lay alone in his great bed, pale and still, with the moonlight falling through the high window.

He could scarcely breathe, and when he opened his eyes, he saw Death sitting upon his chest, wearing his own golden crown and holding his sword and banner. All around, in the folds of the bed-curtains, strange faces peered out at him — some gentle, some unkind — for these were all his good and evil deeds, come to look at him now.

"Do you remember this?" they whispered. "Do you remember that?" And the emperor grew afraid.

"Music!" he cried. "Sing to me, little golden bird! I have given you jewels and gold — sing, oh, sing!" But the bird stood silent on its cushion, for there was no one to wind it, and it could not sing by itself.

And then, from the window, came the sweetest song in the world. It was the real nightingale, who had heard of her emperor's trouble and had flown to comfort him. As she sang, the strange faces grew fainter, and warmth crept back into the emperor's tired limbs. Even Death paused to listen, and said, "Go on, little nightingale, go on."

She sang on and on, of quiet gardens and gentle grass and the peace that comes after long sorrow, until Death himself grew wistful for his own garden and drifted away through the window like a thin, cold mist.

"Thank you," said the emperor softly. "I banished you once from my land, and yet you have sung Death himself away from my heart. How can I ever reward you?"

"You rewarded me the very first time I sang for you," said the nightingale, "when I saw tears in your eyes. Sleep now, and grow strong again. I will sing to you."

And she sang until the emperor fell into a deep and healing sleep.

When morning came and sunlight filled the room, the emperor woke well and strong. No servant had returned — they all still believed him gone. Only the nightingale sat by the window, singing softly.

"You must stay with me always," said the emperor. "Sing only when you wish, and I will smash that artificial bird to pieces."

"Don't do that," said the nightingale gently. "It did all the good it could, in its own way. Let it stay as it is. As for me, I cannot live shut up in a palace — but let me come when I please. Then in the evenings I will sit on the branch outside your window and sing to you of the joyful and the sorrowful, of the good and the hidden wrongs around you. I will fly to the poor fisherman and the humble farmer too, to all those far from your court, for I love your heart more than your crown — though even a crown, I think, carries something of holiness about it. I will come and sing to you. Only promise me one thing."

"Anything," said the emperor, standing tall now in his royal robes, his hand resting on his heart.

"Tell no one that you have a little bird who tells you everything. It will go better for you that way."

And with that, the nightingale flew off into the morning.

Soon after, the servants crept in, expecting to find their emperor gone. But there he stood, well and smiling, and he said simply, "Good morning."